


Trust

by Brithna



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:10:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brithna/pseuds/Brithna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a response to a prompt “ Trust” from theruinedcastle for the Poke The Dragon Comment Fic-A-Thon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

Trust

With a lump in her throat and absolute terror seeping into her chest, Miranda called out to Andrea from her study. Andrea had never been up here before, only to the small reading nook on the first floor that overlooked the back yard. But this space seemed more fitting tonight. Or at least that’s what Miranda told herself since she could hardly admit to being unable to move much further than her own chair. It was almost laughable. Miranda Priestly. Unable to move. What are the odds? Then again, Andrea would understand. In fact, in a few minutes, Andrea would understand everything—if she didn’t already.

“Yes, Miranda?” Andrea said as she appeared in the doorway, her voice conveying the trepidation and fear that apparently comes along with being called up to the supposed dragon’s lair.

As Miranda nodded toward the couch, Andrea eyes looked at her in disbelief. She sat down anyway, of course, and simply waited. If there was one thing—and honestly there were many—that Andrea Sachs was good at, it was waiting. Waiting for Miranda to speak; waiting on a second elevator when Miranda was too pissed off about something to allow room for sharing; waiting for Miranda to end her morning rant and the countless others she was likely to offer up at any point in the day. But most of all, Andrea Sachs was good at waiting for the truth. Miranda suspected the woman had been waiting on the truth for quite a while.

It wasn’t until Andrea said her name again that Miranda noticed the object she carried. With reverence, too. Like it was a treasure. Perhaps Andrea had intended to come up here all along, regardless of the given invitation? Considering the circumstances, that was highly likely. And considering the circumstances, that is exactly what Miranda had been hoping for.

“Miranda?” She said one more time, looking more alarmed.

The only thing Miranda could do at the moment, was ask the most basic of questions. At the very least, it would get the ball rolling.

“You like it?” Miranda asked, motioning toward the book in Andrea’s lap that she still held as a treasure.

A small smile flitted across her tired face. “I do,” Andrea said. “Very much. I didn’t except it. After what you said a few weeks ago… I didn’t expect you to do something like this.”

Neither had Miranda. A few weeks ago, Miranda expected nothing more than to perform a quick file transfer to a thumb drive and then to forget about it like she had done so many times before. But that turned out to be easier said than done.

“I had my reasons,” Miranda said very carefully, trying to anticipate and plan. Two things she was horrible at when it came to the girl sitting on her couch.

“Well, I guessed that much, Miranda.”

Miranda was not at all surprised by Andrea’s sudden frankness. After all the things that had gone on these past few months, how could she be surprised? Even if Andrea appeared hesitant to climb those stairs or to sometimes even speak at all, Miranda knew Andrea would not be hesitant when this matter was opened for discussion. And it was definitely open for discussion now.

“How many copies did you make?” Andrea asked, no doubt tired of Miranda just staring at nothing but her own thoughts. For once, Andrea was tired of waiting and Miranda couldn’t blame her.

“I made five copies,” Miranda said, pausing for a second to see what might come next.

Nothing came.

Andrea remained silent, silently telling Miranda to open her mouth and say the rest. The reason was nowhere to be found, but somehow this silence from Andrea strengthen something inside her, so with less terror and a little less doubt, Miranda began to tell the truth. The last bit of truth that was not in the book Andrea still held in her lap.

“One copy is for my mother,” Miranda laid her hand on the books she’d yet to give away. “You see, since a memoir is about _memories,_ I did not include the current status of much at all.” Andrea nodded patiently and Miranda started to fidget.

Fidgeting was far outside the parameters of Miranda Priestly’s being, but for Miriam Princhek, fidgeting was pretty normal so she stood up in hopes that that would alleviate the urge. Unfortunately, it did nothing of the kind and Miranda was reduced to leaning against a bookcase across the room with her arms folded tightly.

To turn Andrea’s attention toward something besides the fidgeting and Miranda’s uncharacteristically bare feet, Miranda simply said, “My mother suffers from Alzheimer’s.” Andrea’s face instantly registered sympathy but Miranda refused to give the girl a chance to verbalize it. There was no need. “Things are hit and miss,” Miranda continued. “Good days and bad. She is unable to live alone, though. And I am…” Miranda swallowed and shrugged, feeling like a very small and horrible person all of a sudden. “Unable to care for her myself.”

And of course, Andrea looked as if she was one word away from crying already. She was incredibly strong but the girl’s heart would always be worn on her sleeve.

With another shrug, Miranda looked at the floor and opened her mouth again. “Two months ago she called me Abby. That is…was her sister’s name. That day, she did not recall even having a daughter and that is happening with more frequency.” Miranda dared to look up for only a second. Andrea, thank God, was not looking at her, having rested her elbow on the arm on the couch, leaning her head into her hand. “So it’s only natural,” Miranda returned her eyes to the floor, “that I give her a copy. It might help her. I don’t know… One of the ladies there at her facility can be trusted. She’s agreed to make sure nothing happens to it and will read it to her. And I will. Of course…over and over. Repetition is hardly an inconvenience now.” Miranda looked up again and this time Andrea looked at her in return. Suddenly, it seemed extraordinarily important that she know even if Miranda couldn’t care for her mother here, she did at least spend quite a bit of time with her regardless. “I do see her often, Andrea. I would not want you to think otherwise.”

Andrea shook her head slightly. “I wouldn’t. I don’t…”

“Good,” Miranda said, relieved and feeling much lighter. “Two copies are for my daughters.” Miranda sighed then, feeling less relieved and much heavier in the blink of an eye. “They care nothing for me, as of yet and—“

“That isn’t true.” Andrea interrupted.

Miranda smiled bitterly. “I know they love me, Andrea. But you and I were both twelve once, were we not? Tell me, at that age did you truly think of your mother as a person? A woman with a life beyond your own existence?”

Andrea inhaled and exhaled deeply as the realization of Miranda’s words hit her. “No,” she said. “I guess you’re right.”

“I am.”

“Always,” Andrea smiled.

“Hardly,” Miranda admitted and managed to smile back. “But in this thing…I am. When I was a young girl, as you know,” Miranda nodded toward the book in Andrea’s lap, “I thought my mother’s single purpose in life was to play dress-up with me and carry me back and forth to my playmate’s houses. Thinking of her as an adult, a woman and not just a mother, did not come until much later. Much, much later. So, you see, I now understand what that feels like…from her perspective. And by the time Caroline and Cassidy are ready to learn about the kind of woman their mother truly is, _I_ might not be here to tell them.”

“Miranda, don’t say—“

“It’s hereditary, Andrea.” Miranda simply said. “My family has a long history of it.”

Yet again, as the realization of Miranda’s words sank in, Andrea took another breath and let it out slowly. And there was silence. What could she say? It was only the truth. Facts are facts, and these facts ran exceptionally deep. Running away from it was impossible.

“Since that is the case,” Miranda cleared her throat, determined to move forward to more of the truth. “The other book is for me,” she went over to the desk then and picked one of the books from the stack, “because while my mother doesn’t know me anymore, and my children could care less at the moment…I might forget altogether.”

From here, Miranda decided to wait. She chose to simply lean against the desk and wait for Andrea to get over the harshness of this new revelation and ask the question she’d probably wanted to ask since Miranda had put the first draft into her hands a few months back. Surprisingly, it was a long wait but finally Andrea’s face seemed to come back together from its previous place of pity and sadness.

“The only other copy was for me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Even though Miranda had known full well that it was coming, hearing the question come out of Andrea’s mouth was quite a different thing. Quite different indeed. So different that it made Miranda second guess herself, second guess her reasoning, her own senility.

“Why, Miranda?”

So the strong-willed, but tired, girl on her couch would not give up? Of course she wouldn’t. When had Andrea ever given up on something? She’d certainly never given up on Miranda; Andrea had always stood toe-to-toe with her, never backing down.

One version of the truth could have been said as this: Andrea had become her editor by default due to Miranda’s trust in her, so she should have a copy, shouldn’t she? It would only be the polite thing to do. And considering she’d hardly been heavy handed with her red pen, Miranda’s confidence in the project was more than a little boosted. Unlike Runway, when it came to this, Miranda had worried more about substance than style. As it turns out, according to Andrea, she’d done just fine.

There was another version of the truth, however, that was the more honest of the two. And that was the version Andrea deserved.

“Because you knew, Andrea,” Miranda went over to the bookcase again with a doubled purpose; to put her copy away and to avoid eye contact. “You knew, when I gave you the first draft. You knew fifty pages in that there was more, that what I’d given you was a sterilized, almost clinical version. You knew that wasn’t all and you would not accept it until I dedicated myself to leaving nothing out. As I said before,” Miranda swallowed and cursed what was coming, wishing she could help it. “My mother forgets who I am. My children think I am only here to cater to their every whim. But you, you Andrea…you know. You _know_ me. Even before you read that,” Miranda turned back around and looked into Andrea’s eyes with determination. This would either turn out the way she wanted it to, or it wouldn’t. Either way, this needed to be said. “Even before you read that, Andrea, you knew me. And you have _always_ accepted it. I’m sure it has not always been so easy a task, but you accept it. You accept me.”

“That’s not all there is, Miranda.” Andrea said the words so quietly Miranda barely heard her at all, her expression pained yet affectionate, with unshed tears barely holding on. “I more than accept it. There’s a lot more to how I feel about you than acceptance. Don’t you know?”

Well, Miranda had not expected that. She’s hoped for honesty to work out in her favor but this much, this fast? No, she’d not hoped for that; to be given so much in return.  

The washing away of panic and uncertainty for Miranda, was overwhelming, apparently written across Miranda’s face. Andrea came over to her quickly, taking her hands.

“Talk to me,” she said, squeezing Miranda’s hands tightly. “This is too much. I know… I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t,” Miranda blurted out, trying to process Andrea’s words in combination with the feeling of her hands. It was so rare—especially since her divorce—that anyone dared to touch her in any way other than connected to business…and this was far from business.

“No?” Andrea’s voice was hardly anything but a squeak.

“Not at all.”

“Oh… _Wait_ …”

That one word made Miranda cringe with a returned sense of panic and uncertainty. She knew what it meant and she knew she should have moved away from the bookcase a long damn time ago.

“What is this?” Andrea asked as she pointed past Miranda’s right shoulder.

“Nothing,” Miranda said, trying to sound as dismissive as possible.

“You’re lying, Miranda.” Andrea let go of her hand and practically pushed Miranda aside. With a sigh Miranda went ahead a moved. Twelve stories were there, printed and bound together with countless rubbing bands.

“It really is nothing, Andrea.” Miranda said, trying again to sound dismissive.

Andrea completely disregarded her effort and began to invade Miranda’s sacred space by pulling out the first bundle. That particular _story_ (she never called them _books_ ) had been written when she was pregnant with the twins. As soon as Miranda found out she was expecting, she started having dreams about Grand Isle—or, to be specific, Kate Chopin’s _The Awakening_. None of it struck Miranda as odd at the time because it was a nearly perfect representation of how she felt: trapped.

After all, just a month before she’d been ready to divorce Greg. It was a pointless marriage and Miranda had wanted out of it. But, just as she was getting ready to reach for freedom, along came her babies. Add in that Runway was all Miranda had time for, obviously, and the entire situation was maddening. To rid herself of the dreams and hopefully the feeling of dread, Miranda spent late nights locked away in this very room, typing away, creating characters she’d never met and places she’d never been, getting bigger and bigger as each day passed. By the time the girls arrived, the story was just shy of five-hundred pages long and all of Miranda’s fears—or most of them—had thankfully disappeared.

Coincidently, each year that followed brought on a new story to tell and with the addition of this ridiculous memoir, there were thirteen in all.

Before Miranda realized it, Andrea had taken each one off the shelf to read the title page. She should have been angry about it but Miranda, deep down, really didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would. Andrea had been trusted with so much already and Miranda doubted very seriously that Andrea would make fun of her meager attempts to say something on paper that was of a fictional nature.

But Andrea was a true writer. She would know if they were any good, and wasn’t that what Miranda feared the most? Someone seeing them and thinking her efforts were nothing more than a horrible mess? Wasn’t that why Miranda had backed _out_ of the memoir deal offered to her by Random House, yet wrote it anyhow? Because let’s face it, at the end of the day, these pages were more important to her than anything else. Even the memoir. God, especially the memoir.

So how on earth could she put herself through that? Not only because it was so intimate a thing, but…it wasn’t good enough. Even though Andrea thought it was…it wasn’t. The other twelve bundles on this shelf weren’t either.

“You won’t publish them?” Andrea suddenly questioned her as she stared at the shelf, still looking stunned. “Any of these? Why won’t you publish these, Miranda?”

“I can’t, Andrea. I cannot do it…”

“You won’t even think about it?” Andrea pleaded with her. “If I looked at them for you… Please, think about it.”

Miranda shook her head. She trusted Andrea but no one else. Maybe in time… But for now, Andrea was the only trusted soul she knew. There was no real need to bash the girl’s hopes against a rocky shore, though. There was never any harm in allowing for a little hope to remain in the most hopeless of situations.

With a heavy heart, Miranda released the first of the twelve to the person that knew her best of all.

“Take this one,” she pointed to it, “But I’m only thinking about it.”

Andrea smiled. “Thank you. You won’t regret it. I promise.”

Miranda shook her head. “Andrea, I regret many things on a daily basis, so that remains to be seen.”

“I don’t care,” Andrea said confidently. “You won’t regret this.”

With both eyebrows raised, Miranda wondered at the girl’s tenacity. It was a gift, really. “Well,” she sighed. “When would you like to get started?”

“Now,” she said, with a hint of mischief in her eyes that Miranda couldn’t say she minded very much. “Right now.”

“Exactly how long do you think this will take?” Miranda asked with a hint of mischief in her voice and probably her eyes too. She certainly wasn’t used to trying for such a thing but in front of this girl, it was incredibly easy.

“How much time do you have?”

“For now, all weekend,” Miranda said, trying to ignore that her heart was beating at an unimaginable rate. “My schedule can easily be cleared.”

“That’s true. I should know. I make your schedule.”

“Yes,” Miranda whispered and having already given so much to Andrea in the form of small glimpses and a formidable pile of words upon words, Miranda released the rest of herself to the person who knew her best of all. “But not for much longer.”

“No,” Andrea said in her ear; she’d been leaning in more and more with every word spoken. “You’re right about that, Miranda, because there are quite a few things I’d rather be doing than making your _schedule_.”

Miranda slid her arms around Andrea’s waist and tugged at her gently. She came willingly and their bodies pressed together, fitting perfectly.

“As I said,” Miranda murmured as she placed a series of soft kisses along Andrea’s neck. “You have all weekend… And you can spend it however you like. Right here.”

 

THE END

 

 

 

 


End file.
